The Lame Shall Enter First
by Lasrevinu
Summary: Post 723 GSR


Disclaimer: I do not own CSI.

Summary: Post-723 fic. GSR

Rating: M, but not really. I'm just super paranoid. Better safe than sorry.

A/N: This is dedicated to Quintuple A, who swears she's going to quit after the finale. Yeah, right. I got around to watching this episode and the first thing I thought of was the Flannery O'Connor's short story of the same name which is amazing and has nothing to do with this fic. But read it if you can. Oh, and I know Donald Kaufman isn't a real person, so please, no PMs about how Donald is really Charlie and shouldn't I have just attributed the quote to him? No, because I like Donald better.

**The Lame Shall Enter First**

_**You are what you love, not what loves you. That's what I decided a long time ago.**_

--Donald Kaufman, _Adaptation_

He called Sara on his way home.

No answer.

_She's probably just in the shower_, he told himself as he wended his way back to the townhouse after reuniting Lady Heather with her family. Sara liked to shower before bed. It had something to do with her hair drying naturally, making it easier to straighten when she woke up to go to work. Plus she liked to go to bed clean.

"I spend some days sifting through garbage," she had told him early on in their relationship. "Or under cars or in public restrooms. The idea of sleeping with all the germs we collect at night when we're at work…" She had shivered in disgust at the thought. "Why? You don't shower before bed?"

"I do now!" he had exclaimed, simultaneously grossed out and amused by her quirk.

Truth be told, shower time was his favorite part of their daily ritual. She usually went first, and he followed -- with a tiny bit of overlap. It was the overlap that made his blood heat at the thought. Grissom had timed Sara's showers perfectly. Right about the time she'd be waiting the obligatory one minute before rinsing out the conditioner, he would strip in the bedroom, tossing his clothes in the hamper before stepping into the now steam-filled bathroom.

It was time for the overlap.

He always joined her in the roomy shower stall. After she'd duck her head out from under the spray, Sara would step aside and let him get wet. On the hard days, it was at that point he would pull her into his arms and hold her there until their fingers pruned up and the water ran cold. On the good days, she'd linger in the shower a bit and they'd watch each other. When he was finished, Grissom would wrap himself in his bathrobe and meet a similarly attired, still-damp Sara. They'd peel off their robes and slip under the duvet, huddling close together for warmth. When she started pressing kisses to his chest, he knew bathtime foreplay was over.

Their sex life might've been routine, but it wasn't boring. He loved the idea that they fit together like puzzle pieces, that he was a part of her, even if it was for a relatively short period of time. Sex was such a normal thing -- a biological function that humanity depended upon in order to exist. It wasn't something they had discovered as a couple. But it was surreal nonetheless. Grissom would find himself standing in the layout room with Sara and the rest of the team and it would hit him -- he had been inside her. No one knew, but they had seen each other naked, had touched each other intimately. Years earlier they had stood with the rest of the group and he had wondered the things he now knew. The little details about Sara -- her favorite yogurt, what color she painted her toenails -- were now ingrained in his brain.

He knew her.

And he also knew, as he entered his townhouse, that today wouldn't be one of those mornings they'd happily share a shower together.

She had been upset at work the last time he had seen her. Grissom guessed the gossip had reached her ears -- Catherine certainly wasn't shy about voicing her theories about his sex life. Everyone thought he slept with Heather, everyone thought they had some steamy leather and chains love affair, but obviously Sara knew the truth. She had to. He spent all of his time with her. If he wasn't in the lab or on the field, he was puttering around the townhouse, well within reaching distance.

His life was about her, his work, and the dog. That was it. Occasionally he'd catch a Dodgers game on TV, but beyond that, his extra-curricular activities were non-existent. He couldn't care less what Catherine thought, or that Judy now greeted him with a permanent wide-eyed stare, or that Henry had asked him for dating advice before he left the lab that morning. It would all blow over soon enough and people would find something else to talk about.

The dog ambled up to him for some affection and Grissom obliged before calling out Sara's name softly, in case she was asleep. He walked to the bedroom and found their large bed neatly made and empty.

"Sara?" he called out again, louder this time.

He checked the bathroom and then left for the kitchen. Empty as well, but the dog's bowl was full of food and he had a large bowl of fresh water to drink.

Grissom sighed and went back outside to his car. He drove to her apartment building, half-hoping to not see her car parked in its space. When he came upon the familiar silver Prius, he swore and parked right next to it.

He had a key to her apartment, a fact he had nearly forgotten seeing as they spent almost all of their time at his place since the dog. Her living room was empty, and as he walked in the direction of the bedroom, a flash of black through the balcony sliding door caught his eye. A long thin arm clad in black cotton was extended out, and from the hand dangled a cigarette.

He could feel his heart beat fast as he approached the glass door. "Hello?"

The hand dropped and Sara's face appeared on the opposite side of the glass.

Grissom quickly slid the door open and stepped out onto the tiny concrete balcony. "You smoke?"

She pressed her lips together and stared at her feet, saying nothing.

"Why weren't you home?"

"I am home."

Taken aback by her response, he shook his head quickly. "You know what I mean."

"Do I?"

"Why are you smoking? I didn't know you smoked." How could he not know she smoked? He knew what kind of deodorant she used. He had accidentally used her toothbrush on more than one occasion. How could he miss something like this? Grissom would've paced if there had been any room to move.

"I don't. Anymore," she added, regarding the cigarette in her right hand for a moment before taking a drag. "I quit when I came to Vegas."

"It's bad for you."

She smiled at this. "I know."

"So quit."

Sara scrunched up her nose and shook her head. "Not so easy."

It was wholly odd to see the cigarette between her lips. Grissom's mother had not allowed smoking in her house and he didn't have to deal with much peer pressure in that department because he didn't exactly have friends while growing up. The new, increasingly popular smoking laws coming into affect made the cancer sticks practically a thing of the past. Even the hoodlums nowadays weren't smoking. They had found other, more exciting vices.

But there she was, his girlfriend, blowing out a stream of smoke into the already stifling air.

"I don't find that sexy, you know."

Sara raised her brows. "Hmm?"

"The smoking. I don't find it sexy."

She chuckled. "I'm not doing this so you'll think I'm one of the cool kids."

"Then why?"

She shrugged. "It's relaxing."

Grissom shook his head. "Nicotine is a stimulant."

"God, you're not going to give this up are you?" she asked, half-amused and half-exasperated. "The _act _of smoking is relaxing. I've missed it."

"When did this all begin?"

She tightened her lips. "Long time ago." Just as he opened his mouth to ask her to elaborate, she sighed. "I used to sneak cigarettes out of my mom's purse. She smoked. A lot. Especially after…they fought. The night he died -- after she killed him," Sara clarified, staring out into the distance, "she kept shaking. She couldn't even get the cellophane off of a new pack. I had to do it for her. Last thing I did with my mom was smoke a cigarette."

He didn't know what to say. What comfort could he offer to someone with such a past? Grissom often asked himself that very question during Sara's quiet moments when he knew her mind was on the events that had taken place when she was a child.

"Give me one."

She blinked at him. "Excuse me?"

"You didn't go through the whole pack, did you?" he asked. "I want one."

"Have you ever even had a cigarette before?"

Grissom lifted his chin at her incredulous tone. "I think I'm old enough to handle it."

Sara shrugged and reached for the pack that was resting on the balcony railing. She handed him a cigarette which he promptly placed in his mouth. It felt awkward to try to keep the small, papery cylinder between his lips without looking like a complete amateur. "Light?"

She lit a match and cupped the flame to the end of his cigarette. "Inhale."

"I knew that," he mumbled, sucking in his breath.

Smoke filled his mouth. It seemed to get caught in his throat, blocking his airway and choking him. Grissom bent over, bracing his hands on his thigh, and started to cough violently. The cigarette fell from his lips and onto the concrete at his feet, and he would've seen it but for the fact that his eyes began to water, obscuring his vision.

Sara's hand clapped against his back several times. "Are you okay?"

"I think so," he wheezed.

After a few moments, he stood up straight, pretending he had not just coughed up a lung during his first pitiful attempt at smoking.

"Not your brand?"

He rolled his eyes at her.

"You know, you should quit. I hear it's not good for you," she said absentmindedly, grounding her cigarette out on the stucco of the building.

"How long has it been since you last smoked?"

"Oh, about thirty seconds."

Grissom made a face. "You know what I mean."

"Almost seven years. I bought my first box of nicotine gum at the airport in San Francisco on my way here."

"Why?"

"I don't know. New start," she shrugged. "I guess there's no such thing, though. Old habits die hard." Sara lifted her gaze to his, her eyes almost black with intensity.

"Sara…"

"I know."

"…nothing happened with Heather."

"I know. You're not that stupid," she said, getting out another cigarette and placing it between her lips.

Grissom reached over and snatched it from her mouth. "No smoking," he said, tossing it on the ground.

Sara shook her head and took another cigarette out of the pack. He grabbed it from her fingers, along with the rest of the pack, and tossed it over the side of the balcony. "You know there are other cigarettes in Las Vegas, don't you?" she asked, trying hard so hard to keep her tone light, but he could see she was unsteady.

"I guess I'll just have to follow you everywhere to make sure you don't buy any," he told her, his voice deadly calm.

She opened her mouth to speak but he cut her off. "I will, you know."

Sara pressed her lips together and looked at her feet. Grissom took a step closer, placing his hands on her chin and turning her face up to him. "Okay?"

Eyes brimming with tears, she nodded. She understood. "Okay."

THE END


End file.
